House on the Lagoon

by Rosario Ferré

  It was 1946, and it was our turn to dance at La Perla Theater. When Professor Kerenski picked Estefanía for one of the solos in Swan Lake, I was genuinely surprised, but I didn’t complain. It had taken me four years to reach C level and I had worked like a slave to get there. Estefanía, on the other hand, had been in our school only six months, and she had been selected for the part. When we found out that Professor Kerenski had chosen us to dance Odette and Odile from among a dozen advanced students, we squealed with delight and hugged each other. But things were never quite the same after that. Estefanía was a good dancer, but she was never better than me.

  I simply couldn’t understand it. For months I had been the star dancer at school; no one could hold an arabesque at almost a ninety-degree angle as I did; no one could whirl ten chaînés at an almost disappearing speed. The minute Professor Kerenski saw Estefanía, however, he had been partial to her. He was always using her as an example: when the students dragged their feet and couldn’t get their grands jetés off the ground, he would make her walk to the front of the class and have her show everybody how to “soar into the air like a swan.” I think it had to do with the fact that her hair was geranium-red and that she reminded him of his mother, the Russian princess.

  17

  The Firebird

  ONE DAY I WAS early to class and I heard Tamara and André arguing loudly behind the studio’s closed door. Andre insisted that he wanted to dance the pas de deux of the Prince in Swan Lake with one of his advanced students. He was tired of teaching the girls to dance by themselves, he said: the crown of every ballet was always the adagio—the lovers’ duet—and Tamara couldn’t dance it with him because she was too fat. No ballet master of any reputation would ever put a performance onstage with female students only; it was even more shameful for a disciple of Balanchine. Tamara sighed and said it couldn’t be; if he danced onstage with any one of the well-brought-up girls from Ponce, it would create such a scandal that all the fathers would come to the studio the next day and take their daughters away.

  Professor Kerenski was furious, but he soon found a solution to the problem. If he couldn’t dance the adagio with one of his advanced students, he would find someone who could. He visited the slum of Machuelo Abajo and interviewed several teenage boys from poor families. A few of them were on the neighborhood basketball team. He had them run two miles and jump the high bar to test their stamina and physical condition. He finally chose Tony Torres, a fifteen-year-old mulatto with finely chiseled features. “Please drop by the Kerenski Ballet School in the morning,” he said to him. “We’re going to put on our new production at La Perla Theater, and I need a helping hand onstage.”

  Tony was a handsome young man. He had curly hair, and skin as smooth as bronze. He reminded me of one of those statues of Greek youths that turn up once in a while at the bottom of the Aegean Sea. Professor Kerenski didn’t choose him for his good looks, however. He was the only young man among the athletic boys he interviewed that day who admitted to being gay. “He’s the perfect partner for girls from good families,” he said to Tamara, unable to keep an ironic tinge from his voice. “He can dance the Prince in Swan Lake and won’t pose a threat to any of them. The fathers of our well-to-do students will be able to sleep in peace.”

  Professor Kerenski trained Tony Torres for several weeks before teaching him the role of the Prince. What Tony had to do was relatively simple. Professor Kerenski had pared down the part so Tony could learn it quickly, but I suspect he resented having to do it. He imagined what his artist friends who came to visit him periodically from New York would say: “André couldn’t dance the part himself because, in that two-bit town where he lives, even Balanchine would be considered a pansy. He had to train one of the locals to substitute for him.” It was all so silly he couldn’t help being bitter about it.

  “In classical ballet, the ballerina’s partner is really nothing more than a mannequin,” Kerenski said to Tony on his first day of coaching. “Your main role will be to put your hands around Odile’s waist and lift her up as if she were a feather. Please don’t grab her by the hips, or turn her around as if she were a roasting chicken.” One day he told Tony not to shave the scant beard that grew on his chin: he had decided to add Stravinsky’s Firebird to the program, and Tony would dance the main role as well. For that, he had to appear as virile as possible.

  Tony was very sensitive, and at first he was hurt by Professor Kerenski’s comments. He decided not to give them any importance, however, because dancing at La Perla Theater was a great opportunity for him. He hoped to be able to continue as a regular student at the Kerenski Ballet School once the recital was over. He was even willing to help out as a janitor if necessary, as long as he could continue taking classes. He meant to go to New York one day; he dreamed of dancing in a Broadway chorus or at a first-rate cabaret. When his family found out he would be dancing the two main roles in the ballet school’s recital that year, they were ecstatic and gave him their full support. The young people in Machuelo Abajo saw him as a hero; it was the first time anyone from the slums had ever danced at La Perla or taken part in any of its elegant cultural events. When posters advertising the performance, with Tony’s picture, appeared all over town—affixed to the telephone poles and to the walls of buildings and to fences—the people of Machuelo Abajo took them down, framed them, and hung them in their living rooms.

  One afternoon Abby came to the ballet school to see me in class. Professor Kerenski went up to her and said I had possibilities; there was a chance I could become a serious dancer. He suggested that, once I finished high school, my parents not send me to the university right away but let me study ballet with him for a year or two. I should take my time before I made up my mind about what to do with my life. He was even willing to recommend me to the School of American Ballet in New York, where he had many friends. When I heard what he said, my heart skipped a beat. I was ready to do anything to become a first-class ballerina.

  When we returned home, Abby began to rail against Professor Kerenski. “If you postpone your entrance to the university, it’ll be over my dead body,” she said. “I didn’t sacrifice my whole life baking custards and cakes just so you’d end up dancing cancan soufflés in Radio City,” she went on. I wasn’t surprised at her outburst. But I was in my fourth year at the Lyceum and I could be as headstrong as Abby. I knew she couldn’t force me to enter the university once I graduated from high school—not if I didn’t want to.

  Classes were over for the summer and now we could practice every day at the studio; the rehearsals were going well. Professor Kerenski was obsessed with the choreography, which he was doing himself. We wouldn’t be dancing a complete ballet. This was impossible, not only because they were too long, but because we didn’t have enough dancers to take the principal roles. We would interpret segments of works in an original Kerenski version. André spent hours listening to the music and thinking about the dances. “Choreography is the toughest trial a dancer must face,” he would say. “The steps must come from the soul if they are to achieve the stature of art.”

  Soon we all went to the dressmaker who would make our costumes—a fat lady who lived on Victoria Street—and she took our measurements. Professor Kerenski supervised every detail; he was afraid the rhinestone crowns, the wired sequined wings, and the muslin petticoats which were so popular with Ponceños, who loved to wear elaborate costumes at every opportunity, might inhibit the dancers and make their movements stiff or awkward. He made it clear that the tutus of the girls in the corps de ballet in Swan Lake were to be exactly the same; otherwise, the mothers of the girls would start to compete, insisting that their little girl should have “the most ethereal wings” or “the most bouffant skirt,” and this would spoil the uniformity of the line.

  Professor Kerenski had assigned the role of Odile, the white swan, to Estefanía, and I was to dance Odette, the black swan; we’d wear tutus made from real feathers. This decision created a conflict: feathers were expensive,
and our parents didn’t want to spend a lot on our costumes. It took a lot of convincing to make them come around. Estefania and I would both wear silk masks, delicate ovals with slits for the eyes. The most spectacular costume of all, however, would be worn by Tony in Firebird. Professor Kerenski had designed it himself. It was to be in the style of Marc Chagall, who had sketched the costumes for Stravinsky’s ballet at the Metropolitan Opera House. It had a gilded bodice with a flame-colored feathered cape and a mask with a golden beak which completely covered the face. Tony’s friends from Machuelo Abajo had all chipped in to pay for it.

  The first half of the evening would consist of five scenes from Swan Lake. Estefania and I would each dance a solo in the first scene; the second one was to be a duet; in the third and fourth scene each one of us would dance with Tony; and the last would be a trio. The corps de ballet would be made up of beginners and was entirely Tamara’s responsibility. Every single student in the school would take part, to keep the mothers happy. The second half of the evening would be taken up by Firebird, in which Estefanía, Tony, and I would dance again. Professor Kerenski gave me the role of Prince Ivan, and Tony the role of the Firebird. Estefania was to be the captive princess who is saved at the last moment by the Firebird in the adagio.

  Tony was no mere prop; he proved to be a natural dancer. He was as agile as a deer and had the stamina of a basketball player. In his entrechats he soared almost four feet off the ground, higher than Kerenski ever did; and every time he made a grand jeté he seemed about to take off over our heads like a bird. He had an ingrained elegance and would hold us delicately by the waist, so that Estefanía and I had no trouble performing our arabesques and pirouettes. Professor Kerenski was pleasantly surprised, so he choreographed a more complicated interpretation of the Firebird than he had initially planned. Two weeks before the performance, when we began to rehearse at La Perla Theater, Tony’s friends from Machuelo Abajo would come to see him dance every afternoon. Each time he did a difficult step, they cheered and applauded as if it were a basketball match and he had put the ball through the hoop. In spite of Tony’s success, Estefanía and I would have preferred to dance with Professor Kerenski, and we couldn’t help feeling let down about it.

  When a new advanced student enrolled at the school, Kerenski studied her personality to see which side to bring out when he assigned her the part she would dance at the recital. Estefanía was, in his opinion, a jarreté dancer: she had a lyrical, sensuous way of moving. With her red hair and milk-white skin, she was perfect for the romantic role in the adagio, when the ballerina is supposed to melt like a snowflake in the arms of her partner. I was an arqué dancer, brilliant and rhythmic, more suited to energetic solos and Mediterranean allegros con fuoco. Raven-haired and olive-skinned, I danced with so much energy Professor Kerenski was impressed. “I like your fiery spirit, your sense of independence on the stage,” he once told me. “I hope you never lose your style, because it’s what makes you so special.” He didn’t know that when I danced I wasn’t expressing any particular style. I was just trying to forget my troubles at home.

  The last month before the performance, Professor Kerenski spent hours rehearsing Firebird with us. He had created something very special, and we were euphoric that he should have invested so much time in us. After the recital, the new choreography would always be associated with our names. We thought it was his way of making us the keepers of his legacy. Stravinsky’s music was like a typhoon. It pulled us in its wake as it rushed us toward the unknown. The mystery of nature seemed to throb in its sway.

  Estefanía was often late for rehearsals, so Professor Kerenski, Tony, and I usually began without her. When she finally got to the studio, Tony and I had already practiced the main scenes, so we left early. Abby was after me not to be late for dinner, and Tony had to take care of his mother, who was in a wheelchair, until his father came home from work. Estefanía would stay on with Professor Kerenski, and they always practiced late. He would rehearse Tony’s part in Firebird with her, teaching her all the secrets of the adagio.

  The night of the recital, the entire school came out of the studio at seven o’clock and walked down Aurora Street. No one in Ponce was surprised to see us in our black leotards and pink practice slippers walking single-file down the street, carrying our tutus in hangers before us so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Ponce is a city that loves spectacles, and people wouldn’t miss them for anything. That’s why houses there are like small theaters, with wide balconies opening onto the street. In the early evening, people sit chatting and gossiping, and as we went by that evening they waved and said they’d see us at the performance, which would begin at eight o’clock.

  Professor Kerenski couldn’t pay for a live orchestra, so the recital was performed to recorded music. Tamara operated the record player herself from the empty orchestra pit, and the music came out of two large speakers directed toward the audience. That week, tickets were sold by the hundreds. All the well-known families in town had at least one student at the ballet school, so everybody who was anybody was coming to the recital. Professor Kerenski, in keeping with his ideals of social justice, had also distributed a good many free tickets among the people of Machuelo Abajo, so Tony’s friends and relatives could come and see him dance.

  By a quarter to eight, La Perla Theater was packed; and everyone was dressed in formal evening wear. The relatives of the well-to-do students, in shimmering gowns and tuxedos, sat on the right side of the theater, where windows were left open and a cool evening breeze came in. Tony’s relatives and friends sat on the left, where seats were cheaper because there were no windows, which made it hot. But they didn’t seem to mind. Tony’s friends were smiling, pointing this way and that to the lighted Murano chandelier—a gift from the Italian government when Adelina Patti came to sing in Ponce, accompanied by Louis Gottschalk, almost a hundred years before—or to the fresco of the Seven Muses, all dressed in pastel togas and wearing green laurel wreaths on their heads. Conspicuous among them was Terpsichore, the nymph of dance.

  The first half of the show was as smooth as silk, without any problems. Estefanía and I danced Odette and Odile as if dancing on air, aided by our black-and-white feathered tutus. Tony was matchless as Prince Siegfried, outfitted in a magnificent blue silk jacket with gold buttons that his family had also paid for with contributions from his neighbors. The corps of beginners, aware that Tamara was close by in the orchestra pit and was keeping an eye on them, behaved very well and danced with perfect synchronicity. The audience was delighted, and at the end of the first act there was an explosion of applause.

  The second act began with a mishap. The sets for Firebird were more complicated than those for Swan Lake. Professor Kerenski had wanted to use Chagall motifs for the backdrop and had superimposed two images one on top of the other: a quiet forest would be set on fire—the trees would erupt in a blaze of light—to create a feeling of vertigo. On the stage’s outer edge, an inferno of red chiffon was illuminated by footlights. It fluttered in the wind, blowing this way and that, thanks to two large fans hidden behind the stage. The music started and Estefanía began her solo. She was supposed to jump over a barrier of flames, but her right shoe got caught in a red chiffon strip and she lost her balance and fell headlong to the floor. Tamara had to stop the record player, the curtain came down, and it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that the show resumed. Fortunately, Estefanía didn’t injure herself seriously—just suffered a bruised elbow.

  Professor Kerenski couldn’t be found anywhere. When Estefanía stumbled, everyone seemed to be calling for him, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. Tamara had to come from the orchestra pit to handle the emergency. The music started up, and once more we responded to Stravinsky’s merciless onslaught. It was like dancing at the very tip of a flame. Estefanía performed her solo without further mishaps, and I confidently danced my own part. Then we both waited, holding our magic feathers in our hands, for the arrival of the Firebird.

  I
closed my eyes and remembered Professor Kerenski’s words: “If you let the music flood you when you dance, one day you’ll attain enlightenment.” Slowly I let myself be drawn by the throbbing sounds; the music flowed around me like honey, like milk, like a swarm of bees. Stravinsky’s hurricane enveloped me, as it did in the studio during rehearsal. When I opened my eyes, the Firebird was emerging from a forest of flames, dancing toward us. With every step he took, he defied the force of gravity, so high in the air did he soar. His costume was magnificent: his legs were sheathed in gold and looked like columns of fire; his arms were wings dipped in blood; his golden mask was the mask of life and of death. But what impressed me the most was the enormous spiral shell which lay curled between his legs.

  First came the piece “Burning with Thirst,” which the Firebird danced with me; then Tamara played “Unending Hunger” on the gramophone, and the Firebird turned to Estefanía. During the next fifteen minutes I performed a series of glissés alongside the Firebird. Then I did a set of pirouettes, ending in an elegant pasé, as we had rehearsed at the studio. It all went very well; it was clean and controlled dancing, the kind of performance Professor Kerenski expected of Tony and me. It wasn’t until the last pasé, when the Firebird had to clasp me tightly around the waist to lift me up on his right shoulder, that I noticed the scent of crushed geraniums that came from his armpits. It was impossible to turn to look at his face; the mask hid it completely behind its shield of gold.